by Anne Stuart
There was still the problem of the two older sisters, but he was unworried. They would either present themselves, as this one had, and the answer would be simple, or they would never return. Kilmartyn and the eldest one were on the run, and they might never hear that the charges had been dropped.
For all he knew, the pirate and the middle one had perished in the storm that had sent him overboard into the howling sea. He had been saved, but then, he was blessed. The dark force that had always watched over him could have already sealed their fate.
He was at peace. He no longer had to hide, and be afraid of his mother’s disapproval and her lashing tongue. Even if he hadn’t done her bidding, he had triumphed anyway, and Alexander was finally destroyed, the money from Russell Shipping was safely invested with the rest of the viscount’s estate, and Renwick was once more theirs.
She would be very pleased with him, and that was all that mattered.
Alexander didn’t bother sending a servant to inform Sophie that dinner was about to be served. She’d probably refuse to come, and throw something at the poor footman. Alexander was good at dodging things, and he wanted to make sure the room was sufficient. It was too close to his, a challenge to his determination not to bed her again until they were legally married, but he didn’t dare let her sleep any farther away from him. London offered too many opportunities for escape.
He climbed the two flights of stairs slowly, turning things over in his mind. There was something disquieting about this house, about Rufus, about Sophie. It was as if everything was out of step, and he couldn’t quite decide what was wrong.
He reached his own bedroom, went in, and washed up. He still had the scent of her on his hands, and he liked it far too much, but there would be other times. Moving to the adjoining door, he opened it.
She was sitting in the window seat. She was sound asleep and he stood there, watching her. She really was exquisitely beautiful. She looked as fragile and lovely as a porcelain doll, with her perfect skin, her sweet mouth, her golden curls, but he knew just how deceptive that was. She was as fierce as Boadicea, the female warrior who’d fought off the Romans. She was tricky and deceptive and determined, and their clash of wills was evenly matched. He was going to triumph, at least in the matter of marriage, but it was never going to be easy with her. Then again, he’d never been interested in easy.
He moved into the room, only half hoping she’d wake and they could start their bickering once more, but she slept on, shadows of exhaustion beneath her soft eyelashes. He took the chair nearby, settling into it quietly, and watched her breathe.
He ought to let her go and he knew it. She wanted freedom, or at least she believed she did. He could change her mind—she was halfway there already—but why did he want to? If he really loved her, he would let her go.
And he did. Love her, that was. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, and he had no idea why. She was scrappy and contrary and vain and . . . delicious. Maybe it was when he found her asleep on the tor, proof that she’d been watching him for weeks. Maybe it was when he’d found her dancing in the garden in nothing but her shift, and he’d taken her in his arms and danced with her. Maybe it was when she came, and wept, and she was a woman who didn’t weep.
It made no sense, but he loved her. And if he told her so it would give her one more weapon against him. She didn’t recognize that they were . . . soul mates was a ghastly phrase, but it suited them. They belonged together; he knew it with an absolute certainty.
She seemed to know that they didn’t, with the same kind of certainty. Which one of them was right?
He still had no idea why she was refusing exactly what she’d wanted. She wanted a wealthy, titled husband, and he was hers. On top of that, he had already shown her he could give her the kind of pleasure she’d never felt before, and he knew she found him physically appealing, no matter how she tried to hide it.
So why was she fighting it?
If she told him no he’d have to let her go. It didn’t matter that he needed to satisfy the dictates of honor—no one knew she’d lived beneath his roof without benefit of a chaperone, that he’d touched her, kissed her, taken her. If he couldn’t seduce her into doing what he wanted then he couldn’t, wouldn’t, force her.
He should let her go, he told himself again, watching the soft curve of her breasts as they rose and fell beneath the pretty yellow dress. If it were up to him he would always dress her in yellow, or in nothing at all.
He should let her go.
He couldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOPHIE CAME AWAKE WITH a start. She’d fallen asleep in the window seat, and her neck hurt; her entire body was stiff from a day in the carriage and then falling asleep in an uncomfortable position. Alexander must have plumbing in this house . . . a long, hot bath would do wonders for her amour propre.
She heard a deep, growling noise, and it took her a moment to realize it was her stomach. She’d refused to eat in the carriage, which meant she’d had nothing since breakfast, and she was a girl who liked to eat. Or was she now officially a woman? What made the difference in the eyes of the world—being compromised or being married? If it was marriage, then she was definitely still a girl and would be for a while, if she had any say in the matter.
She stretched, slipping down off the window seat and glancing around her. The gaslights were turned down low, but she could see the room quite clearly. She ought to change for dinner, she supposed, but she needed a bath more than anything. The bathing room was at the end of the hallway, and she quickly filled the tub and got in, soaking in the warm water.
She’d had odd dreams while she slept. She’d dreamt that Alexander watched over her, not the mocking, overbearing Alexander, but the man who’d kissed her, who’d taken her to bed, who’d danced with her in the moonlight. If he had been watching her it would have been to make sure she didn’t escape, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that he’d watched over her with . . . caring. She laughed to herself at the notion. That would hardly have been Alexander.
If she hadn’t realized she was starving she would have stayed in the bath forever. She put the yellow dress on once more—at least it had only a light wearing—and stepped into the hallway, to see Alexander waiting for her.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said, his eyes traveling down her body with a slow, deliberate caress.
She ignored it, and the small shiver it sent down her spine. “Good,” she said in a clipped voice at odds with her inner warmth. “I’d change but since I’m shoeless I decided you prefer informality.”
His mouth curved in a faint smile. “Maybe I just prefer your bare feet.”
“Did you ever consider that my feet might be cold?” They weren’t, but she wanted to make him feel guilty.
“I could warm them for you.”
She remembered his hands on her feet in the carriage, the delicious sensation that had spread through her. A very different sensation from what he’d done beneath her skirts, but nonetheless wonderful. “They aren’t cold,” she said quickly.
“I didn’t think so. It’s been warm the last few weeks.” He held out his arm. “I believe my brother awaits us.”
His brother, she thought. The man who could help her, even if she’d rather cuddle up to a snake. She looked into Alexander’s dark, beautiful face, and put her hand through his arm. “Lead on, Macduff.”
She’d had worse meals, including the one Rufus Griffiths’s mother had interrupted. Alexander’s brother was doing his best to be the charming, amusing center of conversation, and Alexander laughed at his slightly malicious stories, but Sophie had the sense that he was uneasy as well. Perhaps it had nothing to do with his brother and more to do with second thoughts about marrying her.
The thought should make her rejoice. Instead her appetite fled after a few bites, despite the fact that Alexander had a decent cook, and she sat in silence, wiggling her toes beneath the table as she tried to come up with a plan.
She n
eeded to leave him before he decided to let her go. Pride demanded it. Which meant tonight. She still had the tight slippers Gracie had given her, and while St. John’s Wood wasn’t in the very heart of London, she certainly could find a hackney, even at this late hour. She could excuse herself, and instead of going to bed she could simply walk out the door before he realized it, and never see him again.
God, he was beautiful in the candlelight! But animal attraction wasn’t a reason to marry someone, and yes, she had to admit there was a powerful animal attraction going on between them. She looked at him and wanted to rut, to roll in the mud with him, to do all sorts of unspeakably wonderful things with him.
But that wasn’t a reason for marriage. Neither was the appeal of his dark humor, or his kindness toward his servants, or his clear intelligence, or his unexpected gentleness. Having her heart jump every time he drew near, the unexpected trembling when he touched her, the need to be near him, to see that smile devoid of mockery. All of it meant nothing, nothing at all.
She was no romantic young chit, despite appearances. She was practical, hardheaded, and she knew what she needed to do. As long as she stayed around the Dark Viscount all those qualities went out the window, and she felt helpless to resist him.
She manufactured a discreet yawn, but even that was so ill mannered she was half-ashamed of herself. She had been so inculcated in society’s rules that breaking each one felt like an act of treason.
“Are you simply exhausted, my precious?” Alexander said solicitously. “You’ve had a long and tiring day.”
She forced a polite smile. “Indeed. I should retire and leave you both to your brandy and cigars, but I think I will go straight to bed rather than have coffee in the drawing room. It’s after midnight, and I don’t think I can keep my eyes open.”
“There’s no need to leave on our account, sister,” Rufus said with his charming, slightly smarmy smile. “You don’t mind me calling you sister, do you? I’ve always wanted one, and dear Jessamine was with us for so short a time. They were barely married a year before she was . . . before she fell to her death.” He glanced at Alexander, looking suddenly contrite. “Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned her.”
Alexander was sitting back in his chair, calm amusement in his eyes. “She knows, Rufus. I don’t think you could surprise her with any of my horrible secrets. Her opinion of me couldn’t sink much lower.”
There was just the faint hint of regret in his voice, as if he really believed she disliked him. Not only believed it, but hated that fact. Ridiculous. If it was true, it was simply because she was making his life difficult by pretending to . . .
Pretending to what? She wasn’t going to waste her time thinking about such things. Once she was gone, and safe, she could ponder what was going on in her own stupid mind. Infatuations were easy enough to deal with—she’d squashed a number of them in her time.
But this didn’t feel like an infatuation.
“I am very tired,” she said, giving Rufus an apologetic smile when she’d rather kick him. With shoes. “If you gentlemen will excuse me?”
The footman moved toward her chair, but Alexander was already there, moving so swiftly from his lazy pose that she was astonished. His hand on her arm as he helped her was . . . she wasn’t going to think about it; she wasn’t.
It took all her self-control to come up with her false smile, the one with an edge of anger to it, when she felt no anger at all, just regret, and a strange kind of grief. She wasn’t going to see him again, ever.
“Do you want me to escort you to your room?” She had no idea whether he was mocking her or simply being polite, but she wouldn’t look at him to see which it was.
She shook her head, determinedly pulling away from his light touch. “I’ll be fine. I just need a good night’s sleep.”
He was watching her, she knew it, but she had no idea what he was thinking. “Indeed. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
Tomorrow, when he thought she’d marry him. Tomorrow, when she’d find another way to live. Without him.
“Good night, gentlemen,” she murmured.
She made her way up to her room with a stately grace that should have fooled anyone watching. The moment she was in her room she began searching for her valise. She could scarcely walk out on the streets of London at this hour wearing a pale yellow dress.
The valise was nowhere. At the last minute she opened the armoire and found her dresses carefully arranged, with the shawls and hats and necessaries folded on the shelves. Everything but shoes.
She’d been far too precipitate in getting rid of her black dress—it would have been perfect for disappearing into the night, not to mention applying for a job. There was a dark violet dress that would have to do, and she changed quickly, tucking her wayward hair into a bun at the back of her head and wrapping the borrowed shoes in a gray shawl. She peered out the window into the street below. It was empty, but she’d heard the occasional carriage go by, and doubtless it was more populated a few streets away on the larger boulevard they’d passed. She had enough money for several nights in a hotel, though she hoped she would only have to spend one night there before she came up with a reasonable plan.
She didn’t dare sit on the bed—she really was tired, and she might fall asleep and not awake until morning, when it would be too late. She picked the window seat again, looking out into the night, until she heard Alexander come up the stairs.
There was no lock on the adjoining door, but she’d shoved a chair in front of it to stop anyone from entering. To her mixed emotions, he didn’t even try. Leaning back against the paneled casing of the window seat, she listened to him move about, readying himself for bed, and she steeled herself for his approach.
There was a soft rap on the adjoining door, but she said nothing, holding her breath. He could probably force it if he wanted to, and then all would be lost.
“Good night, Sophie,” he said softly, and she heard him walk away, heard the creak of the bed and the rustle of bed coverings. She closed her eyes, trying not to picture him, trying not to long for him, trying not to feel regret.
She already knew he didn’t snore. She waited a good long time, until she was certain he was asleep. Opening her door silently, she slid out into the darkened hallway. That was one good thing about stockinged feet, she thought. No one would hear her.
She’d already noticed a side door in one of the drawing rooms, and that was her goal. She had to avoid any servants wandering around, but at this hour most of them would have retired. She made it down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor without incident, and slipped into the darkened room.
If there was any moon that night the omnipresent London fog covered it, and the room was almost pitch-dark. She moved carefully, feeling her way, but the place was unknown to her, and she stubbed her toe on something hard and immovable. “Bugger,” she muttered, appropriating Bryony’s favorite curse. That hurt! So much that she sank down into the chair whose leg had attacked her and rubbed her damaged toes for a moment as she tried to sharpen her night vision.
The room was full of large, ominous shapes that she knew were simply pieces of furniture. There was a faint light coming from one corner that she recognize as the French door leading outside, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d only had a glance at it when Alexander had carried her in but her memory had served her.
A soft, rustling noise broke her abstraction, and she froze. Was someone still about? She held very still, but the sound had stopped, and she shook herself. They must have mice or rats here—most houses did. She could send Alexander a polite, anonymous note suggesting he hire a rat catcher.
She grinned in the darkness. It would drive him mad. She liked driving him mad, just as he seemed to appreciate returning the favor. If she married someone like him she would never be bored.
Right now boring sounded wonderful. She didn’t want to question or doubt; she just wanted peace and safety. One night wasn’t so much to ask, was
it? She would figure things out tomorrow.
Wincing at her wounded toes, she rose and drifted across the dark room like a ghost. The door to the side garden was locked, of course, but the key was in it. The housekeeper should retain the keys, she thought, another example of a bachelor-run household. He really needed someone to take things in hand.
She could add that to her note, she thought, cheering up. Turning the key, she slipped out into the dark, foggy night.
The flagstones on the terrace were cold and damp beneath her bare feet. There was enough moonlight filtering through the clouds that she could see the heavy stone balustrade, and she sat down and pulled on Gracie’s shoes. The first foot was difficult; the other one with the stubbed toe was painful enough that she let out an unconscious little yelp, then froze. Had someone heard her?
After a moment she relaxed. They were all asleep, and no one would even notice she was gone till late tomorrow morning. Unless a housemaid brought tea in early, but even so, there’d be no way to trace her in a huge city like this, and Alexander wouldn’t bother. He’d be free of her, he would have done his duty and attempted the honorable thing, but her disappearance would acquit him of any more effort on her behalf.
There was something wet on her face, and she brushed it away angrily. The fog must be so heavy that it made her eyes water. She rose, holding on to the stone balustrade, and stepped down into the garden.
It was large, and she imagined quite beautiful in the daylight. Even at night the scent of early roses was evocative, reminding her of Alexander. The fragrant roses in the air as he’d caught her in his arms and danced with her. She would never again smell roses without thinking of that night.
Damn it, the fog was getting worse. It was making the tears stream down her face, and wiping it away didn’t seem to be doing much good. She blinked a few times, trying to stifle the hiccupping noise that sounded oddly like a sob, and headed for the back of the garden, where there must be a door to the mews.
